The thunder of a retreating glacier. The crackling roar of a wildfire. The clamor of an advancing storm front. These are the sounds of our dynamic planet, the melody of this one unique sphere and hints to the genuine character of these striking phenomena. However, despite the volume of these sounds, they generate an even greater acoustic energy beneath the limits of human hearing, at frequencies of 20 hertz or below. These “infrasounds” possess such extended wavelengths that they are capable of traversing the earth as the churn of far-off occurrences. Yet, humanity has never had the ability to perceive them.
Up until now, that is. Everyday Infrasound in an Uncertain World, a fresh album by artist and musician Brian House, condenses a full day’s worth of these rumbles into just 24 minutes filled with fundamental bass lines, providing a new twist on ambient music. Sound, including infrasound, is essentially variations in air pressure. Thus, House crafted a set of three “macrophones,” tubes designed to direct air into a barometer that takes readings at a rate of 100 per second. From the tranquil forests of western Massachusetts, House can capture what the Earth is transmitting. He then accelerates the recording by a factor of 60, making it perceivable to human ears. “I’m truly fascinated by the layers of perception that we cannot access,” he says. “It’s not merely low sound; it’s also distant sound. That kind of amazed me.”
House’s album is a form of art, yet its creation was made feasible by scientists. Barometers detected the eruption of the South Pacific volcano Krakatoa in 1883 as far away as London. Presently, a worldwide network of infrasound sensors aids in enforcing the nuclear test ban treaty. A handful of infrasound specialists—such as Leif Karlstrom, a volcanologist at the University of Oregon who utilizes infrasound to investigate Mount Kilauea in Hawaii—assisted House in constructing his music-collecting array and gaining a deeper understanding of what he was listening to. “He’s drawing attention to intriguing phenomena,” Karlstrom states, although it’s impossible to ascertain precisely what is producing each distinct sound.
So how does the actual music fare? It consists of 24 minutes of an ethereal chorus, alternating between deep rumbling vibrations and gentle, ghostly whispers. A high-pitched whistle? That could be a train, House suggests. An intense low-octave rumble? Perhaps a remote thunderstorm or a shifting ocean current. “For me, it’s about the enigma of it,” he comments. “I hope that adds a touch of unease.” However, it may also connect a listener to a broader—and deeper—world.
Monique Brouillette is a freelance writer located in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
